


Love is Not Enough

by AndersAndrew, futagogo



Series: Miami Rick and Morty [4]
Category: Pocket Mortys, Rick and Morty
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Betrayal, Bitterness, Character Development, Cheating, Citadel of Ricks, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Emotional Confrontation, Emotional Hurt, Fanart, Group Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jealousy, Kinda, Love Confessions, M/M, Mind Control, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Rick is an Asshole, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Self-cest, Tears, Underage - Freeform, but he regrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-09 02:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11659710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndersAndrew/pseuds/AndersAndrew, https://archiveofourown.org/users/futagogo/pseuds/futagogo
Summary: After one too many insults from Rick, Morty decides he’s through with him. But the situation ends up weighing heavily on both of them. Something has to give.





	Love is Not Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [L'amour n'est pas assez](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9781997) by [AndersAndrew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndersAndrew/pseuds/AndersAndrew). 



Morty's arms looked delicate, but there was a surprising strength to them. Rick liked to feel them around him, clutching at him fiercely. He knew Morty. He knew that he needed to be loved. And he knew that when he held him tightly, it was his way of asking him to stay a little longer, come a little closer.

Rick had no doubts about how Morty felt toward him. His own feelings, however, were a whole other matter. He couldn’t let this go too far. He’d have liked to play along and let Morty take him for a ride, losing himself in his touch, the feel of his silky-soft skin against his own, and all of Morty’s affectionate kisses.

But there was no way he could actually forget who he was and what could happen if he got in too deep.

The pain he inflicted on Morty today would eventually heal over time. He just had to keep a safe distance so as not to leave any open wounds.

He knew Morty. But he knew himself better. He knew what he was capable of doing to people; particularly, those he loved.

It was the middle of the night when Morty’s bedroom door squeaked quietly on its hinges, waking him from sleep. He’d been dreaming of green pastures bathed in a gentle light, surrounded by unicorns. Now he found himself plunged in the solitary darkness of his room.

He blinked blearily to clear his vision, but the world was still so blurry that he wasn’t sure if the scene in front of him was even real.

But there was the unmistakable silhouette of a man standing in the doorway.

"Dad?” Morty mumbled. He couldn’t tell for sure whether he’d actually spoken aloud or just imagined it.

He yawned, not even bothering to straighten up for a better view. He felt detached from what was happening, convinced that he was still dreaming.

"It’s m-m-me, Moeuuurghty," came Rick's slurred voice. He staggered forward and plopped himself down heavily on the edge of the bed.

It’d been three days since they’d last spoken. Three days was a long time for them, after usually spending almost every waking minute together. Morty wasn’t thrilled about it, but he refused to give in.

Except, at that very moment, Morty was too sleepy to be angry. And since it was only a dream—wasn’t it?—he wrapped a lethargic arm around the scientist’s waist and closed his heavy eyelids. A hand stroked his head. It felt good, reassuring. Even if it was only his grandfather’s palm and fingers on his scalp, his silent presence was now real and tangible.

Morty drifted off to sleep again, leaving the old man to sob quietly to himself.

The next morning, Morty slept in until 10:00. Barefoot, he dragged himself to the bathroom to brush his teeth. His sister came in to nab his hair dryer.

"You do realize that’s only for borrowing!” The boy snarled, spitting his toothpaste into the sink. "Just buy another one. After all, you’re making plenty of money!”

“Hey! I’m just saying that’s mine. And you could make money too if you got yourself a job.”

Summer scoffed at him. “Unlike you, I’m not planning on being a high school dropout.”

Morty grabbed the end of the hairdryer, keeping her from ending the conversation. “In that case, you’ve got no need for my diffuser.”

Summer wouldn’t let go. “Oh, come on. It’s not like you need it. You just got up, and your hair’s already got tons of body," she retorted, giving a sharp smack to her brother's blond, voluminous mane.

"Kn-knock it off!" Morty yelled, snatching it back again, violently this time.

"Give it to me. Come ooon, pleeease!" Summer insisted, reaching out one hand to grab the hair dryer and using the other to shove Morty's face away.

The teenager pushed her roughly. “No! G-g-get your own!”

His sister crossed her arms beneath her breasts, her face twisted in a scowl. “Jeez, you’re so pissy! Looks like someone needs to get laid.”

Morty blushed a deep red and shouted, “Get out! GET OUT!”

“Stupid dumbass!" She threw the insult as she left the bathroom beneath a barrage of dirty panties from the laundry basket.

Jerry was walking down the hallway, yawning wide enough to unhinge his jaw. “Kids, it’s too early for all this racket!”

"Morty’s being a jerk!"

“Summer!”

“Well, it’s true! He’s been so moody lately, even Grandpa Rick’s been avoiding him.”

"It's true that it's been a long time since they’ve gone on one of their adventures," Jerry mused. Maybe this was his chance for...some father-son bonding. He was a little ashamed of himself for how he’d been treating Morty—even though the boy's lifestyle still left a lot to be desired. Maybe if he gave him a little more attention, it’d have a positive effect on him. "Morty," he called, tapping softly at the bathroom door.

The door flew open. "WHAT?" The teenager roared, his face hidden behind a moisturizing mask.

"Uh, nothing. Nothing!" Jerry shielded himself, completely caught off guard.

Without another word, Morty slammed the door shut in his face.

The mirror above the sink reflected Morty’s face slathered in white cream, a turquoise, elastic headband holding his hair back. He looked it over, squinting his eyes and striking a pose to take a photo with his phone. He tried a couple duck faces before deciding on one he liked and clicking the shutter.

He posted the photo to his various accounts—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram—with the caption: "Quote of the day: Take care of urself cuz no one’s gonna it for u. ♡”

He wondered if Rick would see his post. He knew that he followed his Instagram under one of the many pseudonyms he used to troll. He might even have been following his Twitter account.

Morty would have liked to unsubscribe from Rick's official Twitter, the only account he dared to follow to not come off as a "clingy boyfriend.” However, he couldn’t bring himself to do it, even when every tweet from Rick, who acted like nothing was amiss, made his chest ache.

His posts hadn’t changed at all: photos of sunsets, the city lights at night, rants on a variety of random subjects, and scathing replies to strangers who commented on his tweets. Morty analyzed each of them, deconstructing them to try to find a secret message, a second reading that was meant only for him.

For example, the other night, he had spent a good hour thinking about a photo Rick had posted of the sunset on the water, accompanied by the caption, "Nostalgia," and had wondered if it was a reference to their first time. He was being stupid, and he knew it.

This was a losing fight for Morty. Not being with Rick only made him unhappy, spoiling what was supposed to be his day off. And then there was the worry that Rick could easily replace him a moment’s notice.

He looked at himself again in the mirror. He had done everything possible to keep from being an ordinary Morty, making himself special and indispensable. He had told himself that boosting his sexiness made him unique.

However, there was no substance to it. It was only a mask he wore. Bleached hair, sleazy outfits... But under all the foundation and glitter was the same idiot without a future, the high school dropout who couldn’t even understand when Rick tried to explain his elaborate plans to him. He’d always lagged behind and always would.

He looked down at the yellow T-shirt he had taken out. It was Sunday, and he didn’t plan on going out. Why get dolled up when he was just staying at home and wouldn’t even be speaking to Rick?

He sighed and turned on the tap to rinse off his face. Maybe he should apologize for everything so that things could go back to how they were. Maybe he could endure being just another trophy to Rick's vanity and set aside his pride and self-respect if it meant they could be together.

It was wrong to lower himself to that, but what other choice did he have? It wasn’t like Rick would apologize for his behavior. And every time he thought about it, it broke his heart.

He wanted everything to be okay. He wanted to be happy again.

In the end, it didn’t matter what the fallout was. For once, he felt right.

The hangover part of a bender was never pleasant. One would think that a heavy drinker like Rick would be immune, yet every time he abused the sauce, he ended up with an upset stomach and a headache that made him want to bash his head against a wall.

He remembered everything, as usual. He remembered how pathetic he had been last night. He was just lucky Morty hadn’t woken up.

Morty. He hated how far the boy was willing to go to avoid him. He wasn’t giving Rick a chance to deliver any well-deserved jabs at Morty for acting like such a baby. He couldn’t get him to stop sulking.

He could only wait it out until Morty got tired, which was incredibly frustrating. Rick wasn’t the patient type. He preferred to be the one who took the lead, who called the shots, who was in control. He didn’t like the position Morty put him in, like he were a dog that had pissed on the carpet and was now forbidden from entering the house.

He wasn’t going to admit that he missed Morty. But he’d be the first to acknowledge that without Morty, his cover was shot. He couldn’t move about as freely now, especially since he still didn’t know who was behind the kidnapping last time.

The man he’d taken hadn’t had much to say, and even after Rick scanned his mind from top to bottom and navigated his dreams with the help of Scary Terry, he hadn’t pulled up any satisfactory information. Still, at least they’d made the most of it. The twosome had terrorized the guy and then smoked a joint while swapping tales from junior high. Scary Terry was definitely one of the best nightmare monsters he’d ever met.

Nevertheless, what he would have liked was access to the image of the girl who had served as an intermediary. From there, he could begin his investigation. But he had no way of retrieving it from the brain like that. Unfortunately, that was a technology he lacked.

However, he knew exactly which Rick could provide him with it.

At long last, he wandered through the spacious Smith home—which looked like it’d been modeled after the Titanic, complete with heavy, carved wooden doors and Victorian paintings—until he reached the in-home cinema where Morty and his sister were watching a movie. They sat sunken into enormous armchairs, sharing a bowl of popcorn between them in semi-religious silence.

“What’re you guys—UUURP—watching?”

Summer turned to him, her hair wrapped in a towel. She was wearing a pink robe, and her freshly washed skin shone in the pale light scattered across the screen. “Love Actually. Want to watch it with us, Grandpa?”

"Nah, I've got things to do," he replied, leaning against the back of Morty's armchair. Morty didn’t even turn, but Rick saw the muscles in his neck tense. He had his hair up in a bun, giving him a clear view of his shoulders and nape. A sudden impulse swept through the old man: He would have liked to bend over and kiss that smooth, golden skin.

But he didn’t. Instead, he just whispered, "The Citadel." A smile blossomed on his lips when he noted the chill that passed through Morty. The downy hairs on his neck stood on end, tempting him even more to pass his tongue over them.

He looked down and found that Morty was wearing denim shorts and a yellow T-shirt. He frowned. It’d been months since he’d seen him dress like an ordinary Morty. He chose to ignore the hint of concern that slipped insidiously into his mind, opting instead to feign interest in his phone, checking his text history and rolling his toothpick between his lips.

“Well. I'm leaving.” And with that, he slipped out of the room.

Summer threw her brother a puzzled look. “You're not going with him?”

"D-d-do I look l-l-like a dog?" Morty grumbled, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

The girl pitched a piece of caramel-coated popcorn in his face. “You don’t have to be pissy.” Morty answered by sticking his tongue out. Summer scowled. “Brat.”

They both turned their attention back to the film. However, during Juliet and Mark’s on-screen kiss, Morty frowned and murmured, "He didn’t invite me to come."

"Usually, he doesn’t have to," said Summer, her eyes fixated on Andrew Lincoln, a blush on her cheeks. “What changed?”

The teen crossed his arms. He didn’t want to talk about it with his sister. He often found her stupid and superficial. Except that sometimes he found she had some solid advice. She was intelligent and more perceptive than he gave her credit for. “I guess you could say...I'm just tired of…” He paused, hesitant to continue.

"Tired of what?" asked Summer, turning to him. “Of traveling through space? Of going on adventures in other dimensions? If you don’t want that anymore, I'll gladly switch places with you.”

Morty straightened up quickly, jostling the bowl of popcorn. "No!" he exclaimed sharply.

"Why not?" replied the redhead. “It's not like everyone gets the chance.”

"Y-y-you don’t know anything," Morty muttered.

“What I know is that you’re sulking like a baby while Grandpa’s out there, having fun on his own. It's stupid.”

Exasperated, Morty got up from his seat and left the room, slamming the door behind him. He looked around for Rick, already knowing full well that he would be in the garage. It was the best place to store his junk without Jerry or Beth coming in and messing with it. It was also—and this was something only Morty knew about—where he had built his secret underground laboratory.

Rick had even mentioned he was keeping one of Morty's kidnappers there. Morty, however, wasn’t interested in revisiting those dark memories, so he’d never actually gone down to check.

Thinking back on it, it probably wasn’t Rick’s lack of tact and hurtful words that had him pouting. Sure, Rick had come to rescue him, but it had been his fault he’d gotten in that situation in the first place. He had only been kidnapped because those men wanted something from Rick.

And Rick had showed up. Granted, a little late.

Morty tried not to think about it. The episode had made for the kind of bitter memories he systematically banished from his mind. Still, his feelings on the subject couldn’t be so easily forgotten.

He tried to recall the lovemaking he and Rick had shared after his abduction, the words they had exchanged, the tenderness and utter connection he had felt. He didn’t think he had been the only one. It had been special, something just for them, and it should have made up for the bad times.

Except that it didn’t.

When Rick had acted like a dick, as usual, Morty couldn’t stand it. This wasn’t the first time, after all, and he knew how to deal with him. But after what they had been through, after growing so close, it was now to hide it with jokes and bitter sarcasm.

There had been too many painful events, and, paradoxically, too many happy moments, to be able to act as if nothing had happened.

Morty started to sprint. This train of thought could only lead to ending their relationship, and that wasn’t what he wanted.

If Rick were to disappear from his life, he couldn’t be held accountable for it.

"Rick!" he exclaimed, throwing open the garage door. His voice reverberated off the walls sheltering his mother's Porsche, his father's Jaguar, and his sister's Land Rover. He had never bothered to get his driver’s license. What use did he have for it when his grandfather's ship would suffice?

Rick was polishing his portal gun with a kind of luminescent oil. He turned around with a dark smile, as if he’d known all along that Morty would to crack.

“Perfect timing, Moeeuuughghty. I waAUGH—was just on my way out!”

“Without me? Your human camouflage?”

Rick shrugged, somewhat embarrassed but hiding it well. “Whatever. I'm going to the Citadel of Ricks, remember? There are enough Mortys there to protect an entire city of Ricks.”

Morty pouted and rolled his T-shirt up to tie it into a knot, revealing his belly and blue piercing. "I'm coming anyway. You never know," he said, stretching his arms overhead.

This didn’t fail to catch the old man’s attention, and he raked his eyes along the young boy’s contours. Then he snorted and opened a portal, his cheeks cherrying. “If that’s what you want, Moeeuuurghty! But try not to draw too much attention to yourself.”

Before he’d even opened his mouth, he knew it was pointless to try to warn him.

They touched down just outside the Citadel amid a swarm of Ricks and Mortys. Though Rick felt out of place, he had to admit that the Citadel was also everything he could ever ask for: There were bars roughly every 100 yards, the air was pure, the city teeming with life and sounds and lights. Despite the artificial lighting of the Citadel, the cosmos glittered brilliantly outside with a thousand precious stars.

He took Morty's hand, feeling an undeniable rush of victory. It had been a long time since they’d last touched.

The boy's hand was clammy. Rick knew Morty didn’t like this place. He’d have liked to take a moment to reassure him—get some ice-cream and enjoy themselves—but he had an appointment to keep. They’d have to save it for after his little commission.

They passed by a Morty whose right eye was concealed beneath an eye patch. His blank expression gave nothing away as he watched them dart into the bar he stood sentinel to. Rick knew he was in the right place.

He scanned the room, looking for a particular Rick, and spotted him instantly. He was leaning against a guardrail, watching the Ricks and Mortys that populated the space with a cynical air, while the waiter Mortys flitted about as busy as bees.

Morty's first impression of the Rick in the black sweater was that he looked sinister. Perhaps it was the lines of his face hollowed out by an intense fatigue, the permanently set grin, or simply the turtleneck he was wearing. He couldn’t say for sure. But either way, he immediately felt uneasy and pressed his fingers into Rick's hand.

Rick didn’t look at him, but he pressed slightly back in a signal to relax, and Morty loosened his grip a touch.

He looked around for the Rick's Morty, wondering what he looked like. He was curious to see the version of himself that accompanied this disturbing Rick—even if part of him hated being reminded of all his rivals that existed. It was hard enough trying to stand out, to make himself needed, irreplaceable.

Little did Morty know that they had already passed his Morty at the entrance. Rick, on the other hand, knew the duo well. In a continuum listing all the Ricks from the most immoral to the kindest, he was among the worst. Only two individuals separated him from the Rick with a black sweater.

It’s what made them such good working partners. Miami Rick was a good supplier of drugs of all kinds and contraband. The Rick in the turtleneck was in possession of cutting-edge weapon technology. The twosome sometimes had use for each other, which was why Miami Rick had contacted him today.

He needed help.

He had long tortured Antonio in his subterranean prison, and he hadn’t pulled any punches after the incident in the club that had left him in a particularly bad mood. Maybe it’d even started before that, shortly after the kidnapping. He’d been afraid, afraid that he’d lose Morty, afraid that he’d hold a grudge against him, that he’d no longer want him. He hated this feeling, and he knew it’d be best for his grandson to put some distance between them.

He wasn’t one of the most wicked Ricks for nothing. If Morty stayed too close, he risked being mortally wounded—physically or mentally. The fact that he was letting it get to him was in itself deeply vexing, but he had to face the music: He felt strongly about this kid, stronger than he’d felt about anyone else.

He couldn’t keep involving him like this. He could barely stand how it made him feel jealous and frustrated. He was no longer the same because of Morty and the bond they shared. He was vulnerable, and it wracked him with guilty.

And the proof was currently held in his very hand. He’d have never been so sentimental before.

The Rick in the black turtleneck finally looked their way, a sneer crossing his lips. Rick unconsciously positioned himself in front of Morty in a protective manner that the teenager appreciated. The discomfort he felt from the other Rick was suddenly even more pronounced.

"Hey," he called out.

"Hey," replied the Floridian Rick, nonchalantly propping his sunglasses onto his forehead. A smile curled his lips as he approached the mysterious Rick, blatantly invading his personal space to pat him on the shoulder chummily. Behind him, Morty relaxed a degree.

"As touchy as ever," the dark Rick chided with a disapproving look.

“Don’t get your panties in a knot.”

They ordered drinks, and Morty pretended to sip his glass of vodka and coke, letting his eyes wander to the decorations around the bar. The bar looked like something out of the ‘80s and reminded him a bit of the club he worked at, the one Rick had bought from the original owner and Morty’s employer, Mr. Needful. Morty wondered whether Rick had done it simply to expand his empire or for him in particular. It was probably egotistical of him to think, but even so, the thought was incredibly comforting.

He wasn’t listening to the conversation taking place beside him, but perhaps he should have, because the Ricks were discreetly discussing him.

"I bet y-you fill his e-eclair," said the Rick in the turtleneck.

Miami Rick shrugged. “Haven’t you seen my phUURPotos on Twitter? It's been several months already.”

The other grimaced. “Twitter. As if I have time for—URP!—that.”

"I know you secretly watch Lolcats on Vine," Miami retorted, sucking his drink through his multicolored straw.

His colleague scowled but didn’t deny it. He remained silent for a few minutes, before taking a sip and resuming. “We all have th-things we do with our Mortys. To each his own. J-just got to be careful we don’t let them take up too much space.”

"And what constitutes ‘too much space’?" Miami grumbled.

"You know very well what I’m s—URP!—saying. When he starts taking over your thoughts too often.”

Miami raised an eyebrow, puzzled. His comrade was usually not the kind to give advice. “Are you having trouble with yours?”

"He worries me," murmured Black Sweater, folding his arms on the bar’s counter. “I think he's spying on me...and that makes me even more pAURHranoid. He's trying to get me. He acts innocent, b-but I know. I know there's something going on with him.”

He clenched his fist, glaring at his glass as if it were an archenemy. "A cocky Morty can lead to some big problems," he added, casting a long, meaningful look at his colleague's Morty, who was gazing in the other direction.

"Take care of your own Morty before you talk about mine!" Miami Rick interjected dryly.

"Don’t be like that," the other snarled, patting him on the thigh. “Anyway, I have what you aAUGHsked for.” He pulled a kind of stapler from his white coat. “But I’m not sharing it for freEUGHee.” His hand, still resting on Miami's knee, slid slowly higher. They exchanged a knowing glance.

"You know that the Council could sentence us for that," Miami said under his breath, finishing his drink.

"FuUUAGHck the Council. We’ve both done a lot worse than that! Not like they’ll know.” With a teasing gleam in his eyes, he massaged Miami’s crotch until he felt him harden in his jeans. A sly smile crept along his lips, but he didn’t say a word. He was just as hot and bothered, a prominent bulge forming in the front of his slacks. It was impossible to hide it under his coat.

They stared at each other without a word. It had been weeks since Miami Rick had slept with anyone. The temptation was strong.

And Ricks were shit at resisting temptation.

"If you want this—UUUURP—shit,” he said, pointing to his stapler, “join me in the bathroom.” He got up and walked toward the door at the back.

"Why are we here?" Morty demanded.

Rick was immediately pulled out of his thoughts as he looked at Morty and blinked. "Why did you choose to come with me?" he shot back.

The young man frowned and looked away. “Don’t I have the right to want to go out once in a while?”

“Don’t—UUUURP—don’t give me that, Morty. You could go out with your friends or go dancing at the club—”

"I wanted to be with you. That's all," the blond cut him off.

“Why? I thought you were pissed at me because I wasn’t being ‘nice,’" the old man retorted sarcastically, making air quotes.

The teenager sighed before answering wearily, "It’s true, you're...you're a real asshole, Rick. But…”

He wiped a few drops on the counter and began to trace figure 8s with his finger, rather than lifting his face again and looking at Rick. “I was missing it, okay? Doing stuff together, going on adventures. I...I just want things to go back to how they used to be. T-to go back to how we were...you know? Rick and Morty versus the world. Rick and Morty for 100 years.”

Rick ruffled the boy’s faded hair with his spidery hand.

"Heyyy!" complained the latter, swatting him away.

"You're a good kid, Morty," Rick said, his eyes shining. “As soon as I wrap this up, let’s go get some—UUURP—ice-cream or something.”

"I don’t want to be a ‘good kid,’" muttered Morty.

Rick left his seat. "It's not my fault you are," he replied with a wink, pulling the side of his jacket over his crotch to conceal his persistent erection.

"I want a cone with at least three ice-cream balls in it!" warned the blond.

“You'll have all the balls you want, MoEUUUGHRty!” promised Rick with a grin.

“Perv.”

“Masochist.”

“Oh, shut up, Rick!”

The old man pushed open the restroom door and entered. Seeing the Rick with the black sweater who was waiting for him, he unfastened the buckle of his belt. “Let’s make this snappy. I promised the boy I’d take him to have fun later.”

"We both know this is going to take a while," the other objected, grabbing his chin. “We’re not—UUURP—the type to get off on just the first stroke.”

Miami shivered with apprehension and desire. His jeans fell to his ankles.

Patience was not one of Morty's virtues. He didn’t really have that many virtues at all, to be honest. Or at least he thought. He waited, however, for a pretty long time, checking his cell phone every now and then before he’d had enough and headed for the restroom.

He realized then that there were two entrances, each with a different symbol representing either a Morty or a Rick.

He rolled his eyes and opened the door marked with a Rick.

He didn’t see anyone in there, so he thought that perhaps the two Ricks were closing their little business in one of the stalls. They looked spacious enough, given the gap between the doors.

He headed toward the end of the row, checking the locks of each stall.

Suddenly, he stumbled over something. He grabbed the nearest wall to keep from falling and looked down. A muffled groan sounded, followed by an impact that made the door of the last stall rattle. Evidently, it was locked. The something he had tripped over was a pair of jeans.

Not putting two and two together yet, Morty blinked several times and listened.

"Mmm, that's good," Rick's voice whispered. But the tone was a little more serious, a little more bleak. Morty immediately identified it as belonging to the other Rick.

The groaning resumed, and the boy had to face the obvious: He’d been completely and utterly deceived.

A wave of nausea overcame Morty. He put his forehead against the cold wall tiles, listening to his Rick getting screwed in the next stall over. It was revolting.

Without a word, he stumbled out of the bathroom.

After the scene he’d witnessed, Morty felt off. He staggered, dream-like, to his stool and downed his drink in one gulp before remembering that it was alcohol. But at that moment, he didn’t give a damn.

He had always feared that Rick would leave him for another Morty, one more attractive, more efficient. But he never thought that Rick could let his attention be snagged by another Rick. He’d never even considered them to be rivals, because he hadn’t guessed that Rick could be so deviant that he’d sleep with a double of himself. How ignorant he’d been. If Rick could sleep with his grandson, what prevented him from sleeping with one of his dimensional doppelgangers? It was almost more acceptable, morally speaking.

He signaled to the bartender—this time a bearded Morty—and ordered another drink which he emptied in a heartbeat. He was starting to feel tipsy, but he wasn’t drunk enough to make the pain in his chest go away. He called for a third glass, but a hand on his wrist stopped him from getting the waiter’s attention.

"You've had enough," said another equally bearded Morty, this time with long, silky hair that made Morty want to reach out and caress it. “Y-you and me, we know we c-cant handle our liquor.”

His eyesight blurry, the blond Morty threw himself into his twin’s arms and ground against him. "I...don’t think...I’ve had enough, no," he whispered, smiling.

"You're w-w-wasted," replied the other, avoiding his eyes.

“I'm horny.” Miami Morty’s correction came out a little slurred, and he huffed a laugh. “Is it true that most Mortys are virgins?” He licked along the ear of his partner, whispering, "I haven’t been for a long time. You wanna see?”

As he flirted shamelessly, he slid a hand around the neck of the young man holding him and slipped it under his jacket to caress his vertebrae with his fingertips.

Other Mortys were watching them from the corner of their eyes, intrigued. The Ricks, on the other hand, paid them no mind.

With satisfaction, the blond felt hands close in on his buttocks.

"I was just trying to be nice," his companion growled.

"I don’t want ‘nice,’" Miami interrupted, touching his index finger to his lips. “I want to be fucked like a whore.”

No feelings. Just rough sex. Pure pleasure.

"I can do that," the bearded Morty said, his eyes sparkling. “I can even bring back other Mortys if you want…”

"The more..." the blonde whispered, not finishing his sentence. His thoughts drifted to the bathroom at the back of the bar.

One sad look, and his companion was hooked. They left and headed in the direction of a motel, while the bearded Morty invited friends to join them.

Sex was reassuring because it was something Morty knew perfectly. This contact, this intimacy made him forget all about his fear of not being loved. The hungrier his lovers were, the more rash and greedy they became, and the more he could surrender himself to the exquisite illusion of being desired.

The Mortys who surrounded him were young and inexperienced—save for the Biker Morty in the leather jacket who was fucking his mouth as he gripped him by his hair. The way he knew how to move made it clear he was a veteran at this.

On the other hand, the Morty working him from behind could barely touch his prostate. He had an erratic, messy rhythm, and his high-pitched squeals were typical of a virgin on the brink of orgasm.

But the Florida-born Morty wasn’t looking for pleasure of the physical kind from this orgy of Mortys. Besides the two penetrating him, there was one masturbating into his hair—much to the great displeasure of the tattooed biker who scratched his scalp as he tightened his grip. Two more, in red and blue T-shirts, watched the show while wanking off, their eyes blown wide with arousal.

Miami winked at them as he pulled the bearded Morty’s cock out of his mouth to lap at the drops of cum leaking out of the glans.

"Slut," the rebel Morty rasped with a touch of wonder, as if he'd never met someone so good.

Miami blushed, the knot in his stomach gradually unwinding, spreading threads of cozy warmth through him. He almost forgot about Rick. His Rick. With another Rick, fucking like rabbits in the bathroom of a bar. Almost.

His anus clenched tightly.

"AH!" The Morty fucking him came violently, and Miami felt his spunk filling him.

Though he loved the sensation, it still wasn’t enough to fill the void inside him. He was held captive by an incomprehensible need, for reasons he couldn’t put a finger on. Whatever it was, it prevented him from finding the kind of satisfaction that usually soothed him. Now sex wasn’t as relaxing as it usually was. Still, he did all he could to forget his loneliness, his hatred for himself, his unrequited love for Rick, and the futile mess of emotions that would never bring him anything but misery. He wanted to be apathetic again, to sleep with anyone when the mood struck him without feeling anything other than sheer relief: the egocentric satisfaction of pleasure and control.

Except it didn’t work like that. He couldn’t go back now that he’d been that way once already.

Now that he’d acknowledged his feelings for Rick, there was no going back.

Nevertheless, he redoubled his efforts on the biker's cock, while another Morty slipped into his still fluttering hole.

Rick was only half listening to the Rick in black’s warnings while he got dressed. He was already thinking about how he would explain to Morty why he’d taken so long. He shook his head, remembering his doctrine: He didn’t have to explain himself. He was free to do whatever the hell he pleased.

But try as he might to convince himself of that, an unpleasant guilt still wracked his conscience.

“You gotta be careURPful with this little guy. Once you plant the chip, you can never take it off,” the other Rick warned in a husky, grating voice, surprisingly more menacing than other Ricks’.

"Mm-hm," murmured Miami Rick, planting a toothpick between his lips.

Now that he had what he wanted—the Manipulator Chip and a quickie—he didn’t want to hang around. And neither did his look-alike. Showing that they were both Ricks on the same wavelength, the other Rick opened a portal and disappeared, flipping him the bird by way of farewell.

"AsshoUURPle,” Rick grunted as he walked out the door. But it was probably because he was an asshole too that they got on so well. As well as two Ricks could get on. They weren’t really the type to make friends.

It was only when he got back to the bar that he noticed Morty had disappeared. Even his glass was gone, which meant that he had to have been gone a while.

"Where’d he goUURP?" he asked the Hipster Morty who was manning the bar.

"Who?" the latter replied in a apathetic tone, which automatically grated on his nerves.

“My MoEUGHrty!!” Rick yelled angrily.

The young man continued to wipe his glass with a blasé look. “Sir, I see a lot of Mortys come by here.”

Rick leaned over the bar to grab him by his V-neck, eyes bulging with rage behind his sunglasses and spittle foaming past his lips. His toothpick fell noiselessly, as he belched, “I asked you WHERE MY MORTY IS!!!”

“I-I-I don’t know, j-jeezus!! I-I-I don’t know a-a-anything!!" stammered the bearded Morty, paling and dropping the smug attitude like a hot stone.

Rick shoved him back and looked around to see if he could spot Morty among the crowd. Then he left the bar and went out into the promenade. Still not seeing him, he pulled out his phone and tried calling. Maybe he’d decided to go on a little stroll or some shiny thing had caught his eye.

"Come on! Pick up, you little bastard," Rick bit out between gritted teeth, cursing the endless dialtone coming over the receiver.

A punked-out Morty passed by in front of him, hands shoved in his pockets. Spots of colorful glitter flashed on his leather jacket, catching Rick's attention. He grabbed him by the arm.

“Hey, you!”

The Morty faced him with a surly look, ready to strike, but after a few seconds he seemed to recognize him and relaxed. He pushed Rick's hand away.

“I bet you're looking for your Morty everywhere. You should keep a closer eye on him.”

“You saw him? Where is he?" Rick interrupted, not dwelling on his words.

"You’re not gonna like it,” the Morty said, scrunching his brow. He jabbed his thumb in the direction of a motel behind him. “Room 741. The door code is 4-2-2-P...:”

He hadn’t even finished before Rick was already crossing the promenade in the direction of the motel.

The young man shrugged. "Ricks," he muttered, scratching the old four-lettered tattoo behind his ear.

Before he’d even thrown the door open, Rick had a sense of what he’d find beyond it.

There were Mortys everywhere. Each and every one of them the same, with their gangly teenage bodies, sweating and panting as they jerked off over his Morty. They were using him like a filthy doll, a toy for satisfying their hormonal fantasies.

A fit of rage overcame him, uncontrollable and staggering. He stormed over to the bed, his fists clenched tightly.

The moment the Mortys noticed him, they scattered like a school of fish in the wake of a shark, stammering apologies.

The Three Eye Morty who was kneeling behind his Morty stopped his obscene thrusting and was about to slip away when Rick grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him back. Sperm gushed when his dick popped out, landing on the blond’s buttocks. The latter bit a corner of his pillow between his teeth, groaning. No doubt the brusque exit hadn’t felt good, but right now Rick didn’t give a rat’s ass.

He took the Three Eye Morty’s place and flipped Morty over on the bed so that they were face to face. Anger, desire, possessiveness, and the need to establish his dominance filled him with an all-consuming blind rage.

Rick pulled his Morty’s golden hair back, causing him to groan in pain and sending a thrill running down his spine. “Dirty l-little bastard!”

"Ri-Rick!" stammered Morty.

"I told y-you to wait for me at the b—UUURP—bar!" roared the old man.

“I saw...I saw what you were doing...with the other Rick!”

The old man froze. He had hoped that Morty would never know what happened, so that he could almost deny it himself. But what did it matter if Morty knew he’d been fucked by that Rick? He didn’t need his approval. At least, that’s what he tried to believe.

He released the boy's hair, his head falling back onto the pillow. Gradually, his anger dissipated in favor of an emotion even more difficult to bear. He pulled away to sit on the edge of the bed and took out his flask. Morty rolled to the side, and Rick could see his face: His cheeks were red, and his eyes were brimming with tears. He tried to ignore him by taking a long draw.

Morty approached him on all fours and hugged him gently.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he whispered. “Am I… Am I not enough for you?"

"It's not—UUUURP—that," Rick grunted in response, his eyes blank.

“Then what? I’ll do a-anything you t-tell me," stammered Morty, cursing his stuttering. “I’ll be better, s-sexier. I…” He lowered his head, tightening his embrace. “I don’t know what else to do to make you want me, Rick…” When the latter didn’t answer, the teenager buried his face against his shoulder, blushing. “Please. Please...don’t…”

“Quit your bitching, MoEURGHty!!” Rick cut him off, running his fingers through his long hair.

"I'm not bitching," Morty said in defense, his voice muffled by the fabric of the pastel pink jacket.

The scientist's lips touched his forehead. “You're so adorable, I can’t help myself.”

His hand gently caressed the boy's neck, running down his back, along his spine. Morty shuddered and curled up against him. His naked body shined with sweat, enticing Rick like a moth to a flame. Rick touched the inside of his thigh with his fingertips, and Morty spread his legs obediently, revealing his half-erect cock.

"As if a gang of Mortys could satisfy you," Rick snarled as he pulled off his sunglasses, a threatening gleam in his eyes.

Gently, Rick lay the young man on the bed and kissed his neck. Morty quickly wrapped his arms around him, moaning in pleasure. He folded one leg to rub his thigh against his grandfather's hip and sighed longingly. Before he could speak, Rick sealed his lips with his own, taking his face between his large, gnarled hands.

Morty could start to feel Rick’s erection through his pants, and he was eager to get down to business. It had been so long since they’d been like this, he thought he would die of need. His body, recognizing Rick, responded immediately after such a long dry spell. He wanted to take his cock again and feel his kisses and caresses until there was nothing left for anyone else, not even another Rick or Morty. Not anyone.

"Only I can g-give you what you really want," Rick murmured against his ear, his voice rough with desire. “Only my cock can fill your little hole. Huh, Morty?”

The possessiveness in his voice electrified Morty. He groaned with lust and eyed Rick’s mouth hungrily.

“Yes. Yes!" he gasped softly. His Rick. He needed it. First to be reassured, knowing that Rick still wanted him, but also to erase all traces left by their other lovers. Only his Rick really mattered, and he was the only one who mattered to his Rick.

"You want Grandfather's big cock, Morty?" the scientist whispered, unbuckling his belt.

"Give it to me!" the boy snarled, eagerly tugging at his trousers to strip them off.

The old man gave a laugh at his enthusiasm and kissed the tip of his nose. “You’re so sweet, Morty, you're gonna get it. Wait just a minute and I’ll give it to you.”

He nudged his penis between the boy's round buttocks. The head slipped harmlessly off its target thanks to the copious amount of cum dripping down his crack. "Fuck!" he muttered. “Couldn’t you at least have made them wear a rubber?!”

"Did he wear one?" Morty shot back, referring to the other Rick from the bar.

“He didn’t c—UUURP—cum inside me,” grumbled Rick. “He never does. It's not his thing.”

Seeing that his reply had hit a sour note, making Morty pinch his lips and glower, Rick followed up with, “He’s more the type to cum on your face if he can. But back in the john, he satisfied himself with smearing it across my cheeks.”

The young man narrowed his eyes, his jaw tight, and he seized the older man’s sex in a vice-like grip. “You’d better sh-sh-shut up if you want to f-fuck me.”

"You want me bad, Morty. Don’t try to hide it!"

“You do too! So shut up!" The boy commanded with a snarl, guiding him against his entrance.

Rick shuddered, a crooked grin on his face. "I'm gonna give it to you deeeep, Morty," he promised, before finally pushing his way in. His penis slid inside, smooth as butter. He groaned with pleasure, his sizable cock pushing its way into the tender and warm flesh of his grandson.

“Ah! Rick! RICK!”

"You like that, Morty?" he rasped, stroking the small of Morty’s back. “My...Hngh!...dick in your...Ah!...pretty, little ass? Ahn! Baby!”

"I love it!" the teen gasped. “I love...it…! Ahn, Rick...! Rick, I love you! Ah! Aaaah!”

As usual, Morty was the first to cum. It was violent, and his entire body was wracked by convulsions of intense pleasure. Rick continued his brutal pace, pouring all his bitterness and frustration into his violent ramming.

After the orgasm, Morty’s body was more welcoming, his muscles now relaxed. But he was also more sensitive, and he squealed with every one of Rick’s thrusts, unable to do anything but endure his relentless assault. Rick knew him by heart. He knew how much the boy liked it, and that heightened his arousal even more.

Sharply, he felt a fist clench tight in his lower abdomen, and soon he was cumming in long strokes. It was the first time for him in weeks. Unlike Morty, he didn’t jerk off that often, and finding partners had become...bothersome. It was the boy's fault, that much was certain. Sleeping around had lost its appeal especially when he knew that someone loving and devoted was waiting for him at home.

He emptied himself completely, giving a ragged groan like a beast at last sated and pressing his moist testicles against the satin-soft buttocks of his grandson. Jizz began to dribble out from the surplus overflow.

Morty curled up on him like a spider on its prey, his arms and legs wrapping around Rick's lithe body. He moaned against his skin. “Rick... Rick…”

The desperate tone of his voice would have melted even the coldest heart. But the old man was far beyond that. He pulled out of the embrace to grab a toothpick and place it between his teeth. An idea began to germinate in his mind, and the more he convinced himself that it was a good idea, the less he wanted to put it into practice. He glanced at the teenager who was now holding his own head in his hands.

"What do I have to do?!" he exclaimed. “Why do you keep running a-away from me, R-Rick?! I thought...I thought we had something. I thought...you wanted me...by your side... So WHY do you act like I don’t exist?!”

His shoulders began to tremble. Rick's fingers grabbed his chin to lift his face up, and he bored his tired gaze into Morty’s tear-ridden eyes. He struggled with the words, pronouncing each syllable with difficulty. "It’s only because...because I love you. I-I have to do it, Mortimer. It's because I-I love you that you have to...s-s-s-stay away from me.”

Morty's face changed. A tear ran down his glitter-speckled cheek, but his expression suddenly lit up like a ray of sunlight in the midst of a storm. “Rick! Rick, I—”

He was cut off by the bite of the stapler’s teeth into the side of his neck. He let out a guttural cry as Rick engaged the device, implanting the Chip deep into his flesh. The Chip blinked a few times before turning green. Then Morty's eyes rolled back in his head, and he fainted.

Rick caught him as he collapsed and carefully laid him out on the bed. He wiped up the blood around the Chip and returned the stapler to his jacket pocket. He had only one Chip, the one the Rick in black had given him in exchange for their little shag in the bathroom. It was a rather reasonable price, all things considered, but the offer was only valid once.

He had originally intended to use the Manipulator tool on his prisoner to extort information from him. But then he’d found a more immediate and appropriate use for it.

He stroked Morty's forehead tenderly, watching his pupils to check that the connections in his brain were made correctly. If what the Rick in black had said was true, he should regain consciousness in less than an hour.

Rick had only a little time to manipulate his memory and make him forget everything: their relationship and the feelings he felt for him. Things would be easier. Morty would no longer have to get mixed up in his personal drama. He would be safe. And Rick couldn’t hurt him anymore. Today would be the last time.

With a heavy heart, he set to work calibrating the Chip.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise that the next (and final) installment will end on a happy note.
> 
> And here is a little fanart that I made on the main pairing of this series: Miami Rick and Morty, to compensate a little for all the angst.  
>   
> Do not hesitate to reblog (Yes, I do self-promote. You've seen it happen. At least it's not often!)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [futagogo](http://twitter.com/futagogo)


End file.
